The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry

by Gabrielle Zevin

I find literary fiction about the Holocaust or any other major world tragedy to be distasteful—nonfiction only, please.

But she’s only a part-timer, and it’s such a bother to train someone new, and at least she doesn’t steal.

Their happiness is not her unhappiness.

Why is any one book different from any other book? They are different, A.J. decides, because they are. We have to look inside many. We have to believe. We agree to be disappointed sometimes so that we can be exhilarated every now and again.

“We aren’t the things we collect, acquire, read. We are, for as long as we are here, only love. The things we loved. The people we loved. And these, I think these really do live on.” She is still shaking her head. “I can’t understand you, Dad. I wish I could. Do you want me to get Amy? Or maybe you could try to type it?” He is sweating. Conversing isn’t fun anymore. It used to be so easy. All right, he thinks. If it’s gotta be one word, it’s gotta be one word. “Love?” he asks. He prays it has come out right. She furrows her brow and tries to read his face. “Gloves?”